


Borreeeddd, With life with everything: I don't want to be Sherlock anymore

by Imashowoffjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Teenlock, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imashowoffjohn/pseuds/Imashowoffjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels lost. He is 16/17 and feels everything is spiraling out of control. He doesn't see a purpose or point in life anymore. He wants to hide. His brother leaves when Sherlock needed him most. Sherlock learns that he is only safe alone. So he shuts everyone out. It's safer that way. Just him. Alone. With a blade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything has a beginning, not everything has an end.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first bit of writing. I got bored. Revision can be very boring at times. Hopefully it's okay, my punctuation is known to be rubbish at times, I am sorry. Any tips on anything would be great :).  
> There are descriptions of self harm, nothing massive or really deep, but enough to trigger stuff.

So I've decided that I might as well write this all down, preserving the person that I once was, as I am slowly losing the Sherlock Holmes I used to be. My mind once full of possibility and potential, now bored of everything of school, of life, of the everyday. The everyday something that once held potential and enjoyment in the many people, their lives, and thoughts that I can read in an instant. But what is the point if there is no purpose for it, all it does is create more pain, more distance. 

School, it was once a good distraction, it once kept my brain occupied. But the ability to learn the whole textbook and more in less than a day, is apparently not what teachers or any of the idiots in my class, wanted. It became too easy, too boring. Giving my brain too much time, to be bored. Not just the nothing to do type of bored. But the type of bored that takes over your brain, over your life. When you begin to be bored of the everyday, of your life. Everything you’ve ever known.

I need something, some sort of relief, something just to stop this all consuming boredom.I need something to keep my brain occupied. Something, just something to stop this. What is the point of being able to tell someone their whole life story, what they did today, its still a bit hit and miss, I haven’t perfected the art. But what is the point in being able to do that, if there is no purpose. It’s pointless, it all is.

I don’t have anyone, anymore. My older brother, Mycroft, the only person close to understanding me. He taught me lots. Motivated me to learn, he couldn’t be better than me, that is what has kept me going for the last few years. Me and him deducing the lives of everyone. Our favourite activity, finding a spot in the busyness, and sitting, watching, observing. Learning everything we could about the people displaying their hearts, their lives, their thoughts. It was good.

But then he vanished off to university. Studying. As much as he comes back in the holidays and the odd weekend here and there. But it’s not the same, half the time he is buried within a heap of textbooks and essays. The fun, the time spent together it has faded.

My parents they are great, both geniuses. But they don’t understand. They are content with where they are, what they are doing. I'm not. I'm stuck. Trapped. Stuck. I'm trying to escape, yet there isn’t a way out. I can’t just leave. I wish I could, yet I couldn’t do that to the few people who still care. I have to pretend I am okay, that I am still Sherlock Holmes. Not the broken shell of who he once was. I am fed up of pretending. Lying to everyone. There isn’t any point anymore. I will shut them all out, everyone, drift through everyday. Just to stop myself from hurting them. Because I know how capable of destruction I am. I have to stop it from being unleashed.

So today is yet another day. yet another same boring day. The same. I want something more. I long to have a purpose. I long for my place, in this crazy chaotic noisy place.

So I managed to survive. Just one more day. Sliding down the school corridors. Being practically invisible, seemingly wrapped up in my own little world. While secretly observing everyone. Gathering information. Just keeping myself occupied enough, to keep myself here. I need something, or someone. Just anything that understands. I don’t think it will find me. I’ll look for it then.

I found it. While attempting to sleep last night. The compass. The one I had chucked on the floor. I was bored of my maths homework. I didn’t care, it wasn’t important. I get good grades in everything without trying. It’s not likely that doing the homework will get me anything better than the 100% I’ve got in every test. Trying to explain that to teachers, only gets you sent to detention, and then the head teacher. I did that last time. I’ve learnt, there is not any point anymore, in arguing, it only creates attention. Unwanted attention.

But the compass. It was once a stupid piece of metal, some sort of thing that only maths teachers could love.

But it’s something I too could also love. The rush, the purity, the perfection. The clean perfect line. The moment. Its mine no one can steal this from me.

It may be small, but it needs hiding. If Mum spots it, she will ask questions. Ones I don’t want to answer. Ones I can’t answer even if i wanted to. A small bracelet, a woven one, the one my brother gave me last year. It will do. Covering the small scratch perfectly.

 

Okay I haven’t written anything for a few days. But my solution is working. Its keeping me here. It may be creating a deeper divide between me and the rest of the world. But that’s what they want. It also seems to be what I want. At least alone, no one can hurt me, no one can stop me. I will be happy again one day, the day I find someone who wants me, and sees my potential. But now they only see the annoying irritating person, who is above all of them. But I don’t want to be part of it anymore. It’s of no interest to me.

They are getting deeper. Today after school, I dropped by Boots, Plasters. I need them, if I am to carry on like this. I need to carry on like this. I need it to stay here. I will stay here. I believe that one day someone will want me, someone will see potential in me, I will find my purpose.

Just thankful that it is autumn, nearly winter. Meaning that there is no reason for my arms to be shown. Therefore meaning my secret is safe. My brain my future, it will be intact. I know it is destroying me. But there is no way back, it’s the only way to stay alive.

Sitting, observing. This cafe, in my spot. The table in the corner, on the balcony of the shopping centre. The place Mycroft and I found was best to keep ourselves entertained when Mum dragged us out shopping. The women I was watching, she stops, _why?_ ah a text. _But from who?_ A small smile. _Therefore likely to be a boyfriend or close family member._ Ah she replies. She’s still typing. _A long text. Therefore, recipient is probably female. Her sister, her mother wouldn’t expect a reply so quickly._ She’s in a hurry. _How do I know this?_ The work clothes, _Lunch break then? How do I know she needs to get back soon?_ The sandwich wrapper? _No?_ Ah the lanyard around her neck, they only have their lunch break 12-1. Its almost 1.

I play this game a little longer. Its almost enough to keep my brain from imploding on me. But it doesn’t cover up the aching inside of me. I know I am choosing to be alone, choosing to isolate myself, but I didn’t really have a choice. No one wanted me. So I am protecting myself. But also protecting my Mum, I’m out with friends, seeing a film. I don’t like lying to her. But it needs to be done, it would hurt her more if I left.

It’s been too long, I need it again. I reach into my pocket, the cold comforting metal meeting my warm hands. My pulse racing. Not here, I can’t. Too many people. So I find myself the quietest place I know. The safest place. Locking the toilet door behind me. Pulling my plasters out of my pocket. My fingers wrapping around my blade. I hold it up to the light, watching the light dance off the blade. Caught in a trance. The carefully folded tissue waiting. Ready. Carefully pushing my jumper sleeve up to my elbow. Making sure it doesn’t catch on the plasters from last night. The blank perfectly pale and undamaged skin. The blade. Across my skin. Burning. Relief. A pause. The small beads of glistening blood. Catching them. Staining the tissue. Red. Release. Perfection. Tearing the plaster packet open while holding the tissue to my arm. Its an interesting process of contortionism. The plaster. On. I’m ready to go face the world again. Imperfections all contained and hidden under yet other strip. One more lie. But one more day still alive.

Later that night, laptop open, reading a small murder case of slight interest. It was pretty obvious though. I solved it in under 5 minutes. Mum knocks gently on my door. Quickly shutting the laptop. The phone, it’s for me. She’s been crying. _Why?_ My brothers voice. _Ah his fault? what now?_

“Yes Mycroft. What would you like.”

“Im sorry, I didn’t want to leave my studies unfinished, but a case of great need appeared, I’m on the plane to...”

Shock, loss, rejection. “No why now, what if I need you here?”

“As I was saying, Russia, probably a year long mission, fieldwork, they need me, I’m sorry Sherlock.”

I stared at the wall, hoping it would give me some kind of hint that this wasn’t real. But everything was in place. When I’m dreaming something is always slightly out of place in the chaotic organisation of my bedroom. I could think of nothing to say, pure anger and hate. So I let my barrier down one last time, I shouted, swore, argued, until Mum came in. So I stopped for her sake. Mycroft silent through my torrent of abuse, when I finally paused.

Said softly “Goodbye, little brother”

I couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t leave. Why Russia. Why did he have to prove himself. To god knows who. I didn’t care, I wanted him to come back. He wasn’t going to, not yet, hopefully one day. He was the only person in the world who understood anything, and even he couldn’t stay. What had I done that was so bad.

Blades. Over. And over, legs this time, my arms were healing, but no space, not enough. This offered some relief. But as I tried to sleep, the phone call, playing over and over. I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I needed something else.

Mycroft’s room. I knew he always had some stashed away where Mum wouldn’t look. Not that she ever searched. She believed we were both still innocent, still perfect. The box on the shelf, mixed in with bank statements and letters from his high school and university. The prize. A half empty packet of cigarettes. And the blue lighter he nicked from the cornershop, with his mates, being ‘cool’. Yes, even Mycroft when trying to escape this world, engaged in social activities once or twice. However he always hung around in the wrong crowd as Mum would say. The right crowd though if you longed for the adrenaline rush, the quick and clever thinking, dancing on the wrong side of the law, but that was the thrill of it all. Or that’s what he always said. He didn’t need them once he started university, that was enough to keep his brain occupied or so he said. He had lied. This was what the fieldwork was about, not that I could really care. He no longer cared about me. I shoved the packet and lighter up my pyjama sleeve, forgetting the recent cuts, wincing as the edge of the plaster peeled up.

Tiptoed back into my room. Window open, the cold of the night creeping in. Offering further comfort. I opened the packet, took a couple out and hid the rest for later. The flicker of the flame dancing for a second. Then the harsh smoke, filling my lungs. But offering the most beautiful thing to my broken self. A pause. A stop. Not as pure and real as the blade. But longer lasting. The beauty watching the smoke spiral out of the window into the sky, taking me with it. I don’t want to be Sherlock anymore.

The next morning, Dad was making jokes at the breakfast table, trying to cover up the gap Mycroft had left in us all. I ate my toast, I had burnt it slightly, but what was the acrid taste when I mentally ached all over.

I escaped as quickly as possible from the house. Recklessly cycling through the early morning traffic, the cold wind burning my face and my hands, breathing in the fumes of London. I got to school, early as normal, avoided being killed by 2 buses. LT61 AHT. BN61 MXK. There is no point in reporting them, no one cares, or does anything. I’m a cyclist, a traffic light jumping idiot as far as anyone else is concerned. Wandered over to my locker, inside, warmth, finally. Shove the armful of books into my locker, twisting and turning them so they all fit. Why are the lockers so small? Apparently not everyone brings as much as I do to school.

I don’t really care anymore about school, all I have to do to keep everyone happy is keep my mouth shut, and keep getting good grades. Slipping through their stupid systems.

Period 1. PE lesson, something to everyone’s surprise, I really love. Rugby, Football, Cricket, Athletics. I love them all. They are all good. The adrenaline rush. The sweat pouring down my brow. Not a pretty sight. But also beautiful, the cold air meaning trails of our breath is left. Distracting me from the pain within. Analysing who is on the other team, the ones sir shoved us in. His voice rising above the general chatter. The slightly wet grass was going to make it slippy, something that is a pain for rugby. However I would much rather be outside in the cold, than inside, where wearing long sleeves is much more obvious, outside we all do, other than the few hardcore idiots trying to prove something. Not sure what, social status probably, that's all everyone seems to care about.

The whistle. The beginning. The charge the rush. The pain as we slammed into each other. Taking him down to the ground. An sprint. Adrenaline. Rushing. Legs burning. The end. Yes. Again and again, we scored, they scored. We were pretty even. The whistle, back inside to the hustle and bustle of the changing rooms, carefully getting changed to avoid scraping my arms, or giving anything away. Waiting for the bell to go.

I really couldn’t be bothered with chemistry. The effort, of sitting there and paying attention. Not letting my mind wonder into benzene rings or anything more interesting. The pain, the energy it takes is unbelievable.

Finally, lunchtime. A pause in the unrelenting waves of hurt, pain, and sadness. Escaping, away from the people. I didn’t care anymore. Over and over again. Gritting my teeth to stop me from crying out in pain. But then relaxing, allowing the physical pain to be traded for the mental pain. Its not logical. Not rational. But I don’t care. They are apparently emotions. Chemicals. I don’t get them. I don’t understand them. I can read them in someone else in an instant. But in me. They spiral uncontrollably, never pausing, never ceasing. I don’t want them anymore, they are what has created this mess. I need them to go away. So yet again, cutting, slashing. Trying to make it fade. I know they won’t. But this means they pause, they stop for a moment. When I am fully in control of them, then I am free.


	2. I thought I was getting somewhere. Apparently not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is still struggling with life. But 6th form seems to have helped.

Snapping the notebook shut, I don’t want reminders of those days. It was only a year ago, but I feel I have maybe moved on a bit. 6th form has provided some relief to my brain. The teachers aren’t all stupid, they at least treat us with respect. They have realised my brain is much more capable than it needs to be to pass. They give me a chance, to talk, to reel off the knowledge I have contained within the walls of my brain. The smaller classes, and classes with people who want to learn. It’s wonderful. I’m not totally here, far from it. I still don’t have the purpose and direction that I crave. But free periods offer my brain the space it needs. It cannot deal with being on all day. Attending to and pretending for and acting to the audience, of the people around me. It drives me mad. The main perk of 6th form. Being allowed out. Sitting on a park bench, or the corner of a coffee shop, letting my brain run wild. It’s truly amazing.

Okay the blades are still there, however they are no longer the thing that rule my every waking moment. I have gained some control back. Emotions, they are still scary, yes I still shut them out. But I have got better at that, they no longer swirl within me, they have faded, they have fallen. As I took back my control, my brain, they switched off, as I focused on the work. The work of observation, I need to learn, there is a purpose a need for it. There has to be. But this has kept my brain occupied, not using it as a distraction from life, but letting it be life. Its where I have always felt most alive. Reeling through the possibilities to find one that fits. Constructing ideas and peoples lives around them. It’s something that I have given myself the freedom to enjoy.

Before I had told myself I could enjoy nothing, I didn’t deserve it. But I do. That is something I still struggle with, letting myself being cared for, and caring about others. I will never be the easiest, nicest, funniest person to get along with. I still hide away from friendship. I have been let down enough times, by people I thought cared. I will always be colder than everyone else, that’s partly to protect me, if I let my emotions out, even into my head they will run riot again. But also because I have learnt that sometimes you don’t need to tell someone everything or let them know you really care. Because I chose to stay. That is enough, I didn’t leave, therefore I see great value in them. Because they are someone who I respect and love. I know sometimes people need to know you love them, one of the flaws in humans, I suppose even though it pains me to admit it, I need it too. Just the simplicity of cooking my tea, making my bed, doing the washing up. It’s the small things. The small things that whisper, you are valued enough in my world for me to do something, to sacrifice something to make your world a better place. There’s the whole ridiculous lark of giving presents, which I have to do to keep people happy. But on my birthday this year, all I asked for was a meal with Mum and Dad. They are two very busy people, and since Mycroft left even more so. So their time is valuable to me, their full attention. It’s something so undervalued in today's culture. But something that we all long for we all crave.

So today, Its been rather dull, the general, no-one very interesting bothered sitting near me on the tube, something I hate but necessary to get me to 6th form as it’s too far to cycle. I had football training after school, which made today much better.

As we rattled into the stop before mine. My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. 

**I’m coming back this Monday, Mission was successful. MH**

I wasn’t expecting that. I had almost forgotten that he was coming back. I didn’t want him to. He had hurt me enough, I didn’t want him to read the pain and hurt written across my arms. I didn’t want to remember him. I wanted him to go away forever. He would try to protect me from myself, like he always used to. But he is the one who caused these one to come run freely around my head. They were bigger and darker than before.

I was no longer little Sherlock, creeping into his bedroom because I was scared on the noises outside, the howling wind threatening to rip the house open. No. These were different, these are the ones in my head, ones that we can’t share. They are in my head, under control, but still there.

I will shut him out, I won’t let him come close again.

That was if he wanted to. In my anger I had forgotten there was the possibility he had changed. No contact for just over a year. I had no idea who he was. Was he still the Mycroft I thought i knew, probably not, but then what did it matter. I would get to disappear off to university, It’s just over a year away, I can cope with having a stranger living in my house for a year, that’s if he bothers sticking around. For all I know he could be galavanting off to America next week.

 

So Monday arrived. As I shoved on my shirt and tie, ruffled up my hair hoping the curls weren’t too wild, Dread. Anticipation. Running through me. I was going to have to go to school, and possibly come back to a house, with a very different person hiding within it.

School wasn’t too bad, psychology was amazing, memory, yes it was dull revision. But that was the lesson, my head was much more interesting. I spent the first hour of the double working out, some of and very vaguely, how my memory worked. Lunchtime I got dragged into helping my chemistry teacher test an experiment for next lesson, the figures I had suggested, were what we got, what is the point in testing something when you already know the answer.

As I got caught in the chaos of the tube, Dropping my oyster card, and fishing it out from the various legs and feet rushing along, my phone buzzed. As I stood on the platform, the train still 5 minutes away. I dared to read the text.

**I’m home, tea and biscuits are ready for when you get back MH**

He was there. At least I didn’t have to worry about whether he was going to be there when I got back, something I had started to do. It wasn’t worrying, it was carefully calculating the possibilities and probability of him being home, based on train times, bus times, and the probably secret flight he would have been on. There was rather a lot of guess work involved. However I had predicted he would be on the 2:30 train out of the airport, to central London, the 3:15 bus to the end of the road. The bus is 10 minutes longer, but Mycroft would never take the tube, he won’t have changed that much. Meaning he would have got in 10 minutes before he sent the text. The other option would have been not arriving until about 10 this evening, something he apparently hasn’t done.

The doormat, someone had straightened it. Mycroft was at home then, his OCD something he is in denial about. Somethings don’t change.

I just hope he hasn’t changed too much, I loved him the way he was, most of the time. Apart from when he was being an irritating older brother. Or working out the real reason why I was late home, or how he could always read me perfectly, nothing was hidden between us. Which was annoying at times, mainly because I can’t read him as well back. Although that may have changed. What if we have lost that between us? What if he doesn’t understand me anymore?

As I opened the door, Mum was there, key in her hand, she was about to open it for me. She never does that, _why today? Mycroft? What has happened?_ I didn’t have to wait long. She whispered to me,

“Be careful with him, 2 bullet wounds, so he’s pretty drugged up and potentially PTSD, He’s okay though, he’s in the kitchen”

I quickly ran upstairs to dump my school stuff, the 3 folders and my sports kit. Carefully and quickly grabbing my friend, the blade, and a plaster or two, well 5. I didn’t know what to expect, I needed to prepare myself. Then carefully and purposefully I came down the stairs and into the warmth of the kitchen. Mycroft, he was back, he was half asleep, slumped across the sofa in the corner of the kitchen, his left arm up in a sling, shot there then.

“Mycroft”

“Sherlock, you are home.”

“So are you”

There was not much else let to say. There were 1000’s of questions racing through my head before I walked in. Before I sat down. Before I spoke. But those quickly faded, just in his presence. His presence is extremely powerful, to many overwhelming and crushing. But in that moment I realised how much I had missed him. No I haven’t forgiven him, for leaving me, when I needed him most. But for a moment I forgot that, I let my racing brain, still. Only for a few moments, but it stopped, it hadn’t stopped like that since he had gone. It hurt. Why was he the only person who I could do that around.

It wasn’t fair. Why did the person I hated the most, make me feel most at ease with myself. This wasn’t right. I wanted him to leave. I didn’t care. I needed him to go. Why did he have to come back when I was nearly there, nearly capable of doing life, without blades, without emotions. He had to come a ruin it all. Remind me how far away I really was. How I could never reach where I wanted to go. Inferior. Imperfect. Broken, Lost. Why did he make me feel like that.

I needed to get away. Far away. Too far away. Even for him. “I should probably go do some work.” I just about audibly mumbled. It was true, I did have an exam tomorrow, my first AS, my chemistry teacher would be disappointed if I didn’t get 100%. But it was also a very convenient way of escaping.

I sat down at my desk. The blank wall, nobody really gets the blank wall thing. It helps me think. A whole wall to fill with possibilities. The pages of my chemistry folder, flicking through them.

Each page appearing on the wall in front of me.

Yes, I have my eyes shut.

Yes, I still need a blank wall, it’s what I picture as the background to my notes.

Anything else I get distracted, by my brain. I once tried sticking quotes and band posters on the wall, they were very distracting I learnt more about the day jobs and secrets of the band members, and the printer I had used, for the quotes, than anything else. I needed no distractions. I needed to absorb myself in the work to stop the pain. It’s no good, it’s there. Just in my head distracting me.

What happened to him? What was the mission? Will I get to go one day?

SHUT UP.

Brain go away. The questions kept coming. Faster. I needed them to stop. Back to chemistry. No this isn’t working. Agghhh, the frustration. Why can’t I just concentrate. Slipping down the steps of landing, into the bathroom.

Blade.

Yes. Rolling up my sleeve, letting my finger run across the scars. They were fading. I was fading with them. My brain was sliding. Plasters. On the side. Tissue ready. Folded. Perfect. One quick slash. Another. Again. Again. Faster. I watched my blood. It began to creep down my arm. Quickly, I moved over to the sink. The crimson drops. Falling. Red. Beautiful. Then I assessed the damage. 12 cuts. A multiple of 3, good. I waited a moment more, still fixated on my blood. It was starting to go sticky on my arm. My brain quickly raced through the series of chemical reactions going on. Good.

My brain was working. What I needed. It was enough. I quickly washed my arm off. Coated it in plasters. Haphazardly, covering all the cuts, just about, enough to stop them bleeding through. I still haven’t bothered with bandages. That makes the cutting seem worse, deeper. It wasn’t bad. I went quickly back to my room.

Chemistry. Finally my brain worked. It was amazing. Mum tried to get me to come down for tea. I wasn’t hungry, couldn’t she see I was working. Apparently not. I said I would come down and eat later. She then realised there was no point in trying, the flicker of hurt and acceptance, in her eyes. I was sorry I had hurt her. I’m only trying to protect myself, therefore meaning I hurt myself less, so I hurt her less. I’ve had enough of always doing what everyone wants me to do. I’ve had enough of always pretending. Just to keep everyone happy. I can’t make everyone happy. I don’t make everyone happy. Being happy is never enough. Being happy doesn’t stop pain searing through you, it only stops the tears from falling. Or blood in my case. I can’t remember what crying is. What is it like? To let yourself be that weak, that broken. I know that. But to then admit that, to yourself, and those around you.

It truly terrifies me. After another hour, playing in my mind palace. Going through the chemistry, forwards, backwards, upside down is most disinorietating I discovered. I finally decided it was time to venture downstairs, to find food. Food is apparently fuel. According to Mum. I always think better without it. Food something else that is supposed to be something alive people do.

But when you are dying again on the inside every forkful is torture, ripping my insides to shreds. I fight through the pain. Cutting again. Then again an hour later.

Then I lose myself inside a book. I’m a fast reader. Two hours later. The book is gone. I finished it, they are never long enough. Why can I not live a life as interesting as book characters. Why can’t I have something interesting happen for once.

Just once. Okay once a day. Something to consume my mind. Something other than pain, guilt and regret. Don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon.


	3. The diagnosis of alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes things in his hands. He doesn't fit into the worlds boxes, he will make his own.

I just want him to go away. Far away. Him being around it’s all too much, too much of a reminder of what being close to someone was like. I don’t see anyway of getting that back. Curling up under the covers of my bed, telling myself that it’s okay I am safe here, because I am alone.

That was when I heard the knock at the door.

“Sherlock, Sherlock are you still awake?” 

Oh great just what I needed, it was Mycroft. I knew if I lied he would work out I was awake, Breathing pattern, pretty easy really. I didn’t have much choice.

“Yes, what would you like now?”

He didn’t bother to reply, but gently pushed open my bedroom door, flooding the room with a harsh light. He came over to my bed and sat on the edge. Pain. Hurt. Anger. Loss. They flashed through his eyes.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I can’t stay here, I have a job, It’s in London so I will be around.”

I stared at him, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not one word. So he continued.

“I know, I see the damage that you have done, I won’t tell Mother. Just promise me you won’t do it again.”

Right great, glad he understands. Or not. It’s not that simple. But I didn’t want Mum knowing.

“Okay, promise. I will miss you.”

He evidently believed me, or if he didn’t he hid it very well. I don’t know. I don’t really care. Did he not understand anything anymore. No he didn’t. He cared, maybe, but sometimes that isn’t enough, I crave to be understood. Anger. Its crashed down on me. Overwhelming. Intense. Pure. Hatred. I wanted scream. I wanted to shout. But I couldn’t. I can’t. Expressing anger.

Expressing myself is bad. That’s what Mycroft just said to me? Sort of. Well okay if this is what he wants okay. So I curled up tighter. Letting my pain pulse through me, not letting the blade take it away. I kept it inside, locked away, I pushed it away from myself. I didn’t care about them anymore. Them, I don’t know who, I don’t know who cared anymore. No one. About right.

2:00

2:01

2:02

1000 heartbeats between every minute. Why could I not switch off. I need sleep. Stupid body why don’t you get that? Fine okay, whatever. I won’t sleep then. I pulled the corner of my curtain open. I watched the occasional few cars. The loud chatter of the people coming home from the party. All staggering slightly. All to dressed up for the state they were in. I feel like that constantly. I’m playing one big game of dress up, and I’m too damn good at it. The idiot who caused half the pain is the only one intelligent to see through it. Why not someone else. All I wanted was someone who cared. That’s what I thought I wanted. But that’s not going to happen, so I’m going to have to change my expectations to stop getting hurt. No one is ever going to care. I’m not going to expect anyone to. Fine. It’s not all my fault. Apparently it is according to everyone else.

Mycroft told Mum. Great glad he trusts me, and I can trust him. I really should stop covering pain with sarcasm, but it’s funnier that way, it still hurts, but at least I can smile then, so no one else knows. I never, ever want to have to do that ever again.

Mum came in, she brought my morning tea, as normal. But then she broke the normal. She sat down on the edge of my bed. She was nervous, terrified in fact. Tears flooded her eyes, blinking them away she barely managed to whisper,

“Mycroft, he told me, I’m such a bad Mother for not noticing, I’m sorry, I’ve been so caught up in work, I shouldn’t have done. I know I can’t turn back time, I’m sorry, I love you, you do know that, Right?”

“Sorry, I should have told you.”

She then hugged me. Great. I didn’t want that. People caring, can’t they all just stop it, I’m really not worth it. I’m not sorry, I am, I didn’t need her getting caught up in my hurt. I definitely wouldn’t have told her, why did I say that, she doesn’t need to know, I was trying to protect her.

Luckily there was a Football game, it was an hour on the tube, so I ate breakfast, yes I know, eating food by my choice not because someone is standing over me and I’m trying to keep them happy. Yeah. Don’t get excited it’s because if I don’t eat I can’t let my muscles burn, throb, with the anger in the game. I’m not an angry player, I don’t shout much, I do what is needed, but it’s the anger inside that drives me, it’s the edge I have when everyone else is getting tired.

After football, we lost, I won’t talk about it. I don’t talk about my imperfections that are there for everyone to see. They are scary. I don’t want to go home. I plug myself into my phone, press play. Fall into the music. Filling my ears, loud enough to fill my brain. Beautiful. Perfection. Drowning out the rest of the world. Drowning, yes that’s what life feels like. I didn’t care that I was still in my football kit, I wasn’t going home. So I text Mum, carefully weaving some words together.

**Going out for lunch with the football team. We lost, but it was a good game. After that I need to grab some books from the library, I’ll be back for tea. SH**

**Okay, shame about the game, have fun. M x**

In reality, I was going to the library. Yes, I was easily going to kill the 5 hours there.

I was a regular visitor, as much as I am a strong believer in the owning of books, I don’t have the money or space to own all the books I read. I read too fast. I wish I could own them all, it’s not going to ever happen though. What I was looking for I knew I could find it on the internet. But it was going to be quicker searching through a heap of books. Also you can read faster on paper than on a computer screen. There’s also the fact that it’s a book. Books are amazing a screen will never compeat. Found what I was looking for.

Scanning through the giant book. It was a book of every mental disorder that they have found. I must fit one of them. I am different from everyone else. I picked ones that I had heard of first. I might fit one of them, I had a vague idea of what they covered.

_Bipolar disorder_

_marked by alternating periods of elation and depression......_  It went on a bit more, carefully scanning it to see if i fitted.

But I didn’t fit every box. I felt like this lots. It wasn’t over week or so I felt this, It was random, it could change in an hour, a day, or a week.

_Asperger's_

_An autism spectrum disorder (ASD) that is characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction and nonverbal communication, alongside restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests._ Yet again, I didn’t fit.

An hour later, I still hadn’t found anything, nothing fitted. So I apparently don’t fit into their nice little boxes. Even a book about mental disorders, I couldn’t fit there. It seems my brain doesn’t fit into boxes, it hated having things pushed onto it. Like school, when it was rigid and inflexible, I wanted to escape it. But the in 6th form, my free periods, I plan them meticulously, I long for organisation. But only organisation I have created, other peoples, I can’t fit into.

Flicking back through the book, in frustration and disappointment.

I spot this _High Functioning Sociopath High functioning sociopath is term used to describe people with sociopathic traits that also happen to have a very high intelligence quotient. They are likely to be highly successful in the field they endeavor (politics, business, etc.). They plan very meticulously and the presence of sociopathic traits like lack of empathy, lack of remorse, deceptiveness, shallow emotions, etc. makes it very difficult for "normal" people to compete with them._ That will do.

I don’t care that it also states that this is an out of date diagnosis. It will do, if it’s not being used then I can keep it as mine then, no one else will diagnosed with it. Therefore in High Functioning Sociopath Land, Yes I just made it, I am the only one, and therefore whatever I think and feel will be true of all High Functioning Sociopaths.

As I’m the only one. Great. I have just diagnosed myself as the only person in the world with a brain as stupid as mine, but that’s fine.

I’m alone and unwanted. Therefore the unwanted, left behind, outdated medical term will fit me fine. I will analyse and learn about this disorder, that’s what I do best. Analyse data. This time my data will be totally generalisable and perfect as well. Because what is true for me, will be true for all high functioning sociopaths.

Alone. Sums up my diagnosis perfectly.


	4. Nearly caught.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock isn't the only broken one then.

People. They well, I have had enough. Of all of them. Why are they here. Okay there would be less interesting stuff going on, no one to play deductions on, no more analysing. But then no more pain. No more intruding.

Intruding. Why do people try. I’m too far gone. Don’t they see that, I’m not going to be human ever again. Therefore there isn’t an point in recovery or whatever the hell the world wants me to do. I don’t care anymore don’t they get it. I don’t have emotions. They don’t exist in machines, or that’s what I’ve been told over the years. People, they try to make the world a better place yet fail so massively. Will they just stop interrupting. Just stop. Just shut up.

Okay, what caused this outrage? ‘This new anger for people? I don’t even want to tell, not even to myself, let alone my notebook. Deep Breathe. Okay I will, or I will do something stupid, cutting isn’t stupid. It works. It’s destructive. That’s fine, I don’t need emotions; emotions are more destructive. Sometimes people need to learn when to stop. Chemistry lesson. Anyway after that, someone called Sherlock after me. I shook it off, people don’t do that, I’m invisible remember?

“Sherlock, wait up”

Okay what was even going on, I stopped at this point. I just waited to see if I was making stuff up, probably true, normally what my brain does. It’s evil like that. It wasn’t my brain playing tricks on me, there was a person, a real person to the voice. Great. Fuck. What did I do now? I decided to move, to keep walking. Away from people, away. Alone. Safe. The footsteps kept coming, faster.

“Stop”

I did, I could just lie to get out of whatever this crazy idiot wanted.

“Fine what do you want?.”

It was John. He was on my football team, and sometimes turned up to rugby practice. He came from a rather interesting family, father was in prison. Mother was working shifts, and an older sister, not sure much about her. He had a serious look in his eye. It wasn’t normally there, not that obviously, not that noticeable.

“I was wondering if you are free to play football on Saturday?”

“Yeah sure.”

“It’s an away game, so it’s a coach from the normal ground at 8:30. We should be back by 1:00”

“Cool, see you there.”

Relief. It flooded over me. I thought he had noticed the cuts that danced across my wrists. Why did it matter if someone noticed anyway? It did. It really did. I don’t understand myself, let alone anyone else bothering to try. I didn’t need anyone, I could do this by myself. I was strong. The world was full of weakness. I didn’t need to be part of it, I was an observer.

Period four, I drifted into biology trapped in my thoughts. Half way through the lesson. I had nearly stabbed everyone in the room, they were all so stupid unable to grasp a simple concept. Cell division, It’s on the GCSE syllabus for god’s sake. Prophase, Metaphase, Anaphase, Telophase, Cytokinesis. There easy done, okay that bit isn’t GCSE but not exactly difficult.

There was a knock at the door, it was one of the pastoral team.

“Sherlock Holmes, can I have a quick word please.”

I got up, what, had they noticed the cuts, please no, that meant phone calls, and stupid questions, and people not understanding.

“It’s about your brother.”

My brother? Okay not what I was expecting, that was good I suppose, but what was this all about.

“He’s in hospital, your mother phoned, she said to tell you not to worry, but she would appreciate it if you went there after your last lesson today.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“I don’t know sorry, you will have to phone your Mum if you want to know that, she gave no detail, sorry.”

“Okay I’ll phone her, thanks for letting me know.”

I phoned Mum. That was a fun phone call. The stupid idiot. Mycroft really. I genuinely didn’t see it coming. He had overdosed, paracetamol. Rather a lot, they weren’t sure how much, but he was rather out of it. He was now in a stable state, but really, Mycroft. So I’m not the only one keep secrets. Not the only one trying to drown out the world. It’s almost funny how similar we are at times.

Shoving my key into the front door, thankful that was over, thankful I was finally home. I hate hospitals, they are horrible. It was a very strange experience, I had never seen Mycroft so, well not being his dominant demanding, perfect self. I had seen a tiny glimpse of that when he had returned and he was tired and slumped on the sofa, but then he wasn’t as vulnerable and broken and weak as he looked then. Mum and Dad had stayed at the hospital, so I was alone. Finally. In a weird kind of way Mycroft’s antics had saved me, a lot. It meant that Mum and Dad’s concern had shifted, this was much bigger than a few cuts, that they hadn’t seen. I’m not stupid. 

I do wonder what would happen though if someone actually did see them, the angry red. All my emotion, in a picture, there for everyone to see. Would they actually bother to say anything, probably not, I would lie my way out of it anyway. 


	5. Uncovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help. Something Sherlock doesn't want to admit he needs

Why summer. I hate summer. It was July. It was too hot. It was fine, school rules meant that living in long sleeved shirts went unnoticed, Mum was much more concerned about Mycroft than me, I could get away with anything.

Football season was over, so was rugby. Therefore meaning there wasn’t any short sleeves anywhere in sight. The one slight problem was PE, athletics, it was too hot for doing in short sleeves, let alone long sleeves. Luckily I had planned a bit, the cuts on my lower legs were only just visible, small silver chinks in my armour. But unnoticed, meaning I didn’t need to wear long socks as well.

After one PE lesson, John approached me, We were the only two left in the changing room, everyone else had gone out to lunch. He looked rather, nervous, in fact he looked terrified. What the hell did he want.

“Sherlock, I was just wondering if you are okay, like you well, oh dear this was a bad idea sorry”

“No really what were you going to say.” I was curious, I was testing my theory. Not sure what the theory was, but I was testing it anyway.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I expected, you don’t just chuck insults at everyone then” I gave him a look, well an angry sort of stare. “Don’t look at me like that” He continued anyway “Just well, I noticed a while ago, I should have said something. Your arms”

Great what do I do now? Run. Hide. Curl up in a ball. This was where I was supposed to deny it, make up an excuse. But there was something about him, I couldn’t be bothered to analyse what. Something that meant I decided he could be trusted.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

That was harsher than I had intended, but then again, shutting people out pushing them away was one of my talents. How many friends of mine had given up and just left, too many hence why I have given up trying.

“You aren’t going to get rid of me that easily. What am I going to do, well that’s a very good question. I don’t really know. What I do know is that you are alone, and as much as you won’t admit it you need someone, you are losing yourself, Sherlock I can see that.”

Great, I had done crap job of hiding everything then, did everyone know then. Fuck. What was I going to do now.

“So everyone knows then. Fabulous”

“No, why did you think that, oh yeah my bad. Sorry, I noticed and I couldn’t leave it forever. No one else knows, you are too careful for that. Like really, it took me forever to confirm my suspicions.”  

Did this guy stop talking ever. This was the longest conversation I had had with anyone in the last 3 or 4 years. It felt very long.

“Now that you have sort of admitted it, and haven’t left, this means that you will let me help you”

“Fine”

I knew I needed help, I knew it was destructive, I knew that. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to admit it. But John wasn’t going to back down, I had deduced that much.

“Great, no really that’s amazing, well done. It’s only small but it’s in the right direction, you can do this, you can beat this, you know that, Right?” He didn’t give me time to answer, he carried on “Here’s my phone number, text me when you are free, and we will meet up and talk properly. Okay?”

  


So I knew had a choice to some extent, if I didn’t text him, he would chase me up next week at school. So this was going to be the easiest way.

How the hell did I start this text. I then decided it didn’t really matter. John knew about my cutting, he wasn’t going to care if i was crap at texting in a socially normal way.

**Hi, John. I am free all of Saturday, and after 12 on Sunday. If either of those fit with you? SH**

I don’t know why I trusted him. I think it was they way he bothered to talk to me, he had always made an effort to talk to me at football. Even if it was the sort of talking that drove me insane. There was also something about him, that meant I couldn’t read him as easily as everyone else, he was very good at hiding everything. He had this way of keeping his emotions, so involved with everything. But keeping them very distant. It was weird I didn’t get it.

I don’t really know how much I trust him. How much I would tell him. Why was i thinking so much about this. It was obvious my antisocial, people-hating mind craved someone to understand. Like John was going to be able to. I couldn’t understand myself, so why did John think he had a chance.


	6. John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is super short.

**Tomorrow would be best for me, do you want to come to mine? Everyone else will be out.**

I knew that if Sherlock was going to tell me anything it wasn’t going to be done where there was the possibility of anyone hearing. He was mysterious and secretive. Getting him to talk was going to involve lots of guess work and persuasion. I had no real idea what to expect. I knew he wanted someone to help him, because otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t have even bothered to talk to him. Sherlock had displayed that behaviour enough times, I was in Biology and Chemistry with him, and on the same football team. I knew what I was getting myself into. He was immensely clever, and quick, and unknowingly hilarious. His almost childlike perception of everything other than work was very funny at times, only work he was interested in, mind you.It wouldn't surprise me if Sherlock burned the worksheet in chemistry, stating it was boring. He had done that at least 4 times in the last few weeks.

I decided I should possibly devise some sort of plan for tomorrow. Sherlock would probably expect me to have done so. Well first of all I would need to establish if he wanted to talk about stuff. This could be difficult. There are too many variables, and my brain isn’t anything like Sherlock’s so I give up trying to formulate a plan, I’ll make it up as I go along and hope he doesn’t notice. My brain is just about intelligent to keep up with Chemistry, Biology, Maths and English AS level. But nothing compared to Sherlock. What was Sherlock taking? I knew it was more than the normal 4. He was in my Chemistry class. So Chemistry. I have a feeling he is doing Psychology. He’s in my friends Biology class, Sherlock was arguing with their teacher over something, sounded like Sherlock anyway, he was complaining about him, people do that lots. That’s only 3 subjects, I’ll have to ask him tomorrow.

Sherlock finally replied to my text so I sent him my address and instructions, he didn’t like the fact I sent instructions, he already knew where the road was, nobody ever knows where it is. Other than Sherlock apparently. But he’s Sherlock. I’m going to have to learn that. Sherlock is like Sherlock.


	7. Starting the untangling with trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows that Sherlock's issues are deeper and more complicated than he will understand. But what matters is that Sherlock is able to understand himself. But it's not going to be a quick process-lots of patience will be required.

I hardly slept last night. Sleep is boring, but sometimes needed. My brain wouldn’t shut up. It was wondering about today going through the different options, different outcomes. Slowly realising that I had no clue about most of my brain and what goes on in there when it comes to self harm, and all that.

John’s wasn’t too far from mine, only about 8 miles, it would take me just under an hour on my bike. There wasn’t a direct tube, or anything near direct. It would have taken about the same amount of time, just near people, well squashed in with them. Not fun.

I showered and dressed, carefully checking my arms they weren’t too bad. In comparison to my legs anyway. Arms were the only place someone would think of looking, just incase John checked. I crept downstairs, everyone else was still asleep. It was 9, and I was going to John’s for 10:30, on a Saturday, no one is ever up, well out of bed, until 10. Normally including me, unless I have a football or rugby match.

I made myself a coffee, breakfast was too much effort. I scribbled Mum a quick note, I had told her yesterday, but Mycroft had returned to his house and job last week so she was rather caught up in worrying and checking up on him.

I arrived at John’s house at exactly 10:30, my timings had been perfect. His house was smaller than mine, it was an end terrace. One that was built during the Industrial revolution, for the slightly higher-up working class, they were now some of the most sought after houses in the area, they were a great location, and were reasonably spacious, and near to some lovely parks and great schools.

I pushed that gate open, with my bike wheel. Carefully making sure the metal gate didn’t come back on my bike, I didn’t want it scratched. John had obviously been waiting for me as he opened the door just as I had maneuvered around the gate, successfully. I left my beauty, the bike, in John’s hall.

“Black, two sugars.” My second coffee of the day. It was the only thing stopping me from cutting right now, it kept my brain feeling here, just.  

“Let’s go upstairs” He grabbed his coffee of the side as he moved back into the hall.

John’s room, it was a bit smaller than mine, books ran across nearly one whole wall, a sofa with a couple cushions chucked on it, his neatly made bed, well his Mum had made it. A laptop shoved haphazardly on his desk, carefully balancing on rather a lot of paper, and a few textbooks and folders, littered the swamp of John’s desk. An electric guitar, a nice red Fender Stratocaster, placed proudly on its stand, contrasting the football boots that were lying in the middle of the floor. A few band and film and sports team posters and a noticeboard covered the other wall. It was just about what I expected. Other than the guitar I thought he had a Fender Telecaster, there’s always something.

John was sitting on the sofa looking at me expectantly.

“You planning on sitting down, or just standing there staring at my room?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry about everything, you are allowed to be Sherlock, just because you are with another human, it doesn’t mean you have to do and act as they do. I know you don’t really do that at school, in class. But you do at football. I know you were checking all your deductions about my room, but you got one thing, maybe two things wrong. Right?”

I just stared at him. He was like reading my mind or something creepy, that was the game I played. Then remembering that he had told me to sit down I did, on the floor. He gave me a weird look, of you can sit on the sofa you know sort of look.

“I like the floor, is that okay? You did just say I didn’t have to conform to social normative influences.”

He just laughed. I think it was a good laugh. I wasn’t really sure what this whole coming round John’s was going to involve. So I decided to sit there and not make eye contact with him. He might not try then. Maybe. He was definitely going to try, but the moment of believing he wouldn’t bother was slightly comforting.

I could feel John’s eyes on me. His breathing rate suggested he was deep in thought. But at the same time he didn’t seem uncomfortably waiting for me to break the silence. Good.

“Sherlock”

“Mmm”

“Do you mind if I see, like where you have cut yourself? Just so I know that you aren’t putting yourself under high risk?”

“Mmm”

“I’m going to assume that’s a yes then.”

I rolled my right sleeve up, I’m right handed so my left arm was worse. The red, purple and white lines scattered carelessly across my arm, but always in groups of three. Three parallel lines, of all about the same length. They weren’t perfect. The idea of perfect cuts. Maybe not. But maybe I would try it later.

“And the other arm?”

“Meh”

The look he gave me, it was enough to make me roll the other sleeve up. Hopefully as he had seen these he wouldn’t think of checking anywhere else. He didn’t seem surprised that this arm was worse. Actually a look of relief briefly flittered through his eyes, he knew this arm was going to be worse.

“Legs as well?”

Wait what? How did he work that one out. Fear. He was a mind reader this wasn’t fair, I didn’t like this.

“Don’t worry, I don’t really fancy inspecting your legs, I know the cuts are worse there, but I trust you. They aren’t ones that will have been deep enough to need stitches. Am I right there?"

“Mmm”

He gave me a questioning look, he apparently couldn’t work out that was a yes, so decided nodding would do, as he seemed fairly happy with the various forms of Sherlock communication so far.   

“Okay, so you aren’t going to talk to me, I knew this was how it was going to work. Can I start with an easy question? Just out of interest, which subjects do you actually do at school?”

I smiled slightly. John wasn’t an intense questioner set on getting the right answer, but his questions were more about building trust and an atmosphere where the air was free. Yes, in some places air is free, but it gets thick threatening to solidify in my lungs, meaning that no matter what I want to say I can’t. I just can’t talk where air isn’t free.

“Chemistry. Obviously. Biology, with Human Biology in my spare time. Maths, Further Maths. Psychology. Art, yes it’s a subject for intelligent people, only people who see possibilities in basically everything can really do this subject properly, without being boring dull and predictable, and it’s fun. Oh and music and Sociology, That’s all, and no I’m not dropping one next year, people keep asking me that”

John smiled at me with slight amusement. But without surprise something most people normally show, he knew that I was more than capable of getting nearly top marks in everything. Most people did, I tended to make this apparent quite quickly, much to the disgust of most people. But John wasn’t most people. I already knew what John took, Biology, Chemistry, Maths and English, he was dropping English in September. There wasn’t much point in asking him back, he had just said I didn’t have to play the stupid game of socially acceptable.

We sat in silence for the next few minutes, not the sort of uncomfortable silence that demands to be filled, but the silence of calm and relaxed. Something I hadn’t felt for a long time, okay maybe I would give John a chance. I hadn’t felt this okay about everything in a very long time. Obviously my brain hadn’t stopped, it doesn’t do that, but it was thinking in a pure uncluttered way, a thing only cutting was capable of doing, within the chaos of me. Also it was good that John was happy to just sit, and not worry about filling the gaps, otherwise he would annoy me very quickly.  

“Sherlock”

“Hmm”

“Do you want to talk about, well everything? Lots, a bit, not at all. I’m happy to do whatever you want, you can talk as little or as much as you want, okay? I’m not going to push for anything, just what you are happy with sharing.”

I shrugged. Wrapping my arms around my legs placing my head on my knees. I wanted to talk but I didn’t really know how, and what to talk about. As far as my brain could work out it was just a massive tangle of things I didn’t understand. It was so different from the neatly laid out rooms of my mind palace.

“I’m going to take that as a yes then, you didn’t say no.” He paused. “and you still haven’t said no, so that means yes right?”

“Mmm”  I didn’t really want to admit that I wanted to untangle the mess, but I really did, but I had no idea where to start. It was too big too overwhelming. Too messy, too illogical for me to make any sense out of it all.

“Sherlock, I don’t really know that much, so you are going to have to help me, I’m okay with this sort of communication for now, but eventually we will get to the point when we can have a conversation about this, or as close as your brain gets to a conversation.”

I looked up slightly through my thick messy curls, he was smiling, he wasn’t cross with my lack of talking.

“But I know it’s been going on for sometime, and it’s gradually got worse. Your scars tell me that. I don’t think you really understand it, you understand most things very well, very quickly, stupidly quickly in fact. Which is partly why it’s so confusing and scary to you. I’m not sure why you do it. But then I know very little about who Sherlock is and what goes on in your funny head. I know nothing about your family, and your homelife. I know nothing about your previous experiences of school.”

He carried on. “But I think it’s something you are capable of understanding. But I also know it’s something you can’t do by yourself, however much you think you can. I know that your loneliness and isolation have probably played a role, as I have never seen you this relaxed. You smiled a moment ago, just. I’ve never seen you do that, other than when you are playing football or rugby.”

He talked a bit more, but not too much. It was now 1:00. I was hungry, I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday, I skipped tea Mum and Dad were out at Mycroft's, checking he was eating and was okay. Almost forgetting my existence, it was better that way.

My stomach rumbled, John’s eyes flicked towards the door. So I got up, slowly so the fabric of my jeans didn’t catch on my recent cuts. We, well John made us some sandwiches for lunch. Then we watched the Qualifying for the British Grand Prix. It made it easier that we both liked sports. I didn’t care too much for the physics and mechanics of the cars but it was something I could admire. They were stunning and fast

As I cycled back through the cool summer evening of London, a sense of relief came over me. I felt like I had a future, a good one again. Things felt slightly more purposeful. I wasn’t any closer to untangling the mess of my brain. But it was something that might be possible.

But as I walked in the front door this fell apart. Mum was pacing the kitchen, shouting well talking, apparently in her world. It was over Mycroft again. I settled for just shouting “I’m back” into the noise and then quickly escaping upstairs.

The feeling I had when I was coming back quickly fell. I didn’t see what that had really achieved. Nothing had really changed, John had said it was going to take time, and I had to learn to be patient.

Patient, I didn’t care. I needed the beauty of blood again. I pulled the blade out of my back pocket, running my thumb nail across it, I needed a new one it was starting to lose its sharpness. I would get one tomorrow, on the way back from getting my new violin. It would do for now, serve its purpose. I ran it quickly across my wrist, the edge of my wrist, not across the veins, they scared me a bit. I never cut there. Ever. I gasped as the first cut started to let the red escape. I added 5 more lines to the collection, or maybe the gallery. Fuck, John was going to notice. Bit late now.


	8. Patient one of the many things I'm not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows that Sherlock is going to have to learn to be patient with himself and others, but it's not going to come naturally.

John had made me give him my email before I had left his house. This was something to do with how texts aren’t long enough to write all that he wants to say. I don’t understand this, if you have a good point to make it should stand for itself and not need backing up 1000 times. But I didn’t see any point in arguing because he had basically given up his day to sit and watch me curl up on the floor and be rather unresponsive. But he seemed to enjoy this strange concept of my brain and its workings.

My laptop made its annoying noise, I don’t know how to describe it, it’s annoying. But it was John, an email.

_To: thescienceofdeduction@gmail.com (Sherlock Holmes)_

_From: johnwatson107@gmail.com (John Watson)_

_Hey Sherlock._

_Hope you are okay and that today maybe showed you that this is going to be possible. You are going to have to learn to be patient, maybe a little with the world, but lots with yourself, you have a very quick amazing mind, yet this also seems to be destructive. Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying get rid of your brain and your amazing abilities, but you are going to have to learn when to use it and when not to. Also I meant to say earlier, anytime you need me, like even just to be there, I will happily sit on the phone with neither of us speaking just being, you liked that, it helped your brain. But also if you feel the need to cut and want to let me know then drop me a text, or even when you have cut. You won’t disappoint me, I won’t leave or give up on you, whatever you do. You have possibly already hurt, once you’ve been home. But that’s okay. It’s all part of the process. You can’t go from cutting yourself, to never picking up a blade ever again overnight. It takes longer than that. It’s a different kind of learning to the one your brain is so finely tuned for, you can’t learn not to cut, or want to cut. As quickly as you can learn the entire biology syllabus. It is just not going to happen. Hopefully my ramblings make some sense to you, and some of it will be helpful, my brain isn’t as concise and quick as yours,sorry._

_John._

**I cut. You were right. SH**

He was right about more than just the cutting. John seemed to understand this weird tangly mess side of my brain much more easily than I was able to. But then my brain found his English homework easier to understand than he did. I’m rubbish at english, it’s weird people stirr imaginary lands with logic and then write about it, the joy of reading is to lose myself in that land. Why would I want to pull myself out of that land that world, to link it to things here. The concept confuses my brain.

**Well done. Well done for telling me, well done for letting me in to just a tiny bit of your brain.**

I don’t quite get what telling him really did, maybe I would get it one day. Why did I tell him. Why am I doing this. Wasn’t I better off alone. Being a High Functioning Sociopath. Well the definition for that was changing, it was going to keep changing, I was never going to be constant. Hadn’t sociology and psychology taught me that. Well it had but these things had never applied to me before. They did apply to me because I was human. I was far from the average, but they still applied to some extent, I wasn’t exempt. I don’t like this.

The next morning I was up early again. I needed new blades and my new violin. It was going to be beautiful, luckily my parents were paying, it was handmade by one of the top violin makers in London, in other words a beautiful violin. It was a late present, by like 2 years for passing my grade 8 with distinction. This was partly my fault for not pushing to get my new violin, the one I had was good, but my teacher had pushed me to get a better one, and my parents had rather overdone it, not that I was complaining. I think it was also some form of bribery after the whole Mycroft situation.

It was 9:00 when I left the house, I just about survived the pain of the tube, stopped of at Whsmith to buy some new pencil sharpeners. Then picked up my violin. That makes it sound like a quick visit, I was there for 3 hours while they adjusted it sorted it and whatever else they were doing. I then got a taxi back, there was no way I was going on the tube, and I had a good excuse, I had my violin.

I re-tuned my violin. I didn’t care that despite it being 12 everyone else was still in bed. I was playing her whether they liked it or not. It was the only thing that was going to occupy me enough to take the edge off the urge to cut. I was testing this whole not hurting thing for John’s sake, well mine I didn’t want him to see me too weak, too broken. Not while he was trying to help me. I played a few of the easier of my favourite pieces and then some clean bandit stuff, one of the the few popular bands bearable, and then some of the super hard stuff my teacher had set me. It was really hard, it required rather a lot of concentration and working out. But that was good, my brain needed something to put that level of attention and detail into.

From the noise downstairs everyone else was having lunch, for some reason unknown to me, Mum had decided that it was a great idea to invite all the family over, well a ridiculous number of my infuriating aunts and uncles, and some small stupid things that made way too much noise. Known as toddlers and children under the age of 7. Pain. I wasn’t planning on appearing at all, unless Mum actually came up and forced me to. She probably had already decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting, she might try to bring some food up for me, I wasn’t eating it. I was too intent on keeping my brain busy and active.


	9. The complicated un-quantifiable nature of emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in some sort of denial about the importance of emotions

I woke up early on Monday morning, it was just gone 6. I was normally up by 6:30 on any normal day including weekends. I was one of those people who could just wake up early despite not going to bed until gone 12 and still function and have far more energy than everyone else. I knew that today was going to be a slightly different school day as Sherlock, well he might make an appearance, possibly without warning. This didn’t bother me, the spontaneous was good. My entire life was on large spontaneous event.

By the time I had got to school, I had already had 3 texts from Sherlock.

**Do I have to go to school? I don’t want to get up. Effort. SH**

**What if I panic at school? SH**

**Why can’t my free periods be 3 and 4 or 4 and 5? SH**

I had settled on simply replying, after deleting what I was going to say as the texts had all been sent in such quick succession.

**I’ll be at school for 8:30, come find me when you get here, Okay, and remember to breathe.**

I decided it was very unlikely Sherlock would be at school by half 8, if he was still in bed, but then again it was Sherlock so you never really know. I finally arrived at school, after what seemed like forever. I quickly made my way over to the common room. No particular rush I just wanted to see everyone before period one, some of them would probably be there. Much to my delight Molly, Mary and Tom were already here, Greg was apparently on his way and would join us before the bell went.

**I’m not coming in until 10? Are you free P2? I’ll cope until break if not. SH**

**I’ve got Biology P1 but I’m free P2 if you promise to help with my maths homework?**

**Okay. SH**

I had no idea what was going to face me period 2. Sherlock was probably going to be waiting outside my classroom, he probably knew everyone's timetable. For the whole school. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he did. I had no idea what he was going to do, for such a logical ordered person he could be very random and unexpected. He liked order, but this order was order he created so as far as it was apparently logical, it was illogical madness to me.

The Biology lesson was rather dull, plants were just boring as far I was concerned. But Molly made the situation better. She was sitting the other side of the classroom attempting to make conversation with some guy who she thought was rather hot. It was very funny. As I glanced towards the clock and then longingly towards the door, I spotted the dark curls of I would rather he was somewhere I can see him, he is safer then.

The bell went, and I was greeted by silence from Sherlock. Great. Right.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“Okay that means no, shall we go get some milkshakes and go sit in the park?”

“Whatever”

Okay this was sort of working, milkshake was some form of breakfast, I highly doubted he had bothered. I wasn’t Sherlock, so I didn’t know by well whatever would let you deduce if someone had eaten. The park was rather empty, luckily, there were some small children running round on the play park and a few older people out for a walk, most of them with their dog. But it was a lovely day, so I was happy.

“So do you want to tell me, or are we playing guessing?”

“I do, I can’t, I just feel well meh.”

He didn’t look at me this whole time, he just seemed rather flat, he had only bothered making an effort when talking to the lady in Shake, he had put some kind of act on, acting like a normal happy human.

“Okay so you feel rubbish, yet don’t know why? Right? Because you would normally know?”

I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of the last bit of that, he apparently picked up on it, judging from the look I got.

“No but… Oh I don’t know.”

“You don’t seem to get this very much. That didn’t bother you before you started talking about it, before you realised you wanted to, needed to stop. Now it’s bothering you, because you feel like you need a reason to cut, a reason to feel rubbish. Because you have started looking for them, you have started analysing it. You don’t need a reason to feel rubbish, you don’t even need a reason to cut. You feel like you need to justify everything, everything needs to be logical, and follow the perfect pattern. But it doesn’t, and it won’t and you can’t make it.”

“Well that’s stupid, that’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. But you just have to realise that you do have a level of control over your emotions, but you have given them to cutting, and self destruction, they are currently owning your emotions, and therefore controlling aspects of your life. You can gain this control back, but it isn’t that simple. It will take effort and energy. You are probably never going to fully understand emotions, for god’s sake, not even the top scientists and psychologists have figured that one out. You can’t treat your emotions like a scientific investigation. They are more like art and music and follow a set of rules and restrictions but there is an element of randomness and freedom within them, You have to learn how they work and behave. They aren’t a crazy storm that is threatening to destroy you they are there to enhance life and make it more exciting and allow you to live life to the full. I will stop talking now, unless you want me to carry on”

“No, I need to think”

I knew I had said a lot, but I knew some of it would go in. More than he would care to admit. I pulled out my maths homework and made a start on that, it was due in period 5 and I didn’t really get it, but I would make it up and get Sherlock to check it before we went back to school.


	10. Sherlock logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock trust John enough to spend lunch with his friends, yet Sherlock can't get his head around the whole emotions and logical thinking, just yet

I knew what John had said was right. I knew that I didn’t deal with emotions. I actively tried to shut them out. They interfered. With everything, I didn’t like them. I didn’t want to have to deal with them again. Feeling nothing was better than feeling pain. Even if it meant never feeling good ever again. Thats what adrenaline was for. It was false emotion, without the pain. That’s what schoolwork and deductions were for. Shutting out the fact that I needed something. I knew I needed to let these emotions back in. But I can’t. I don’t even know if I want to, I needed to, but I had to want to. Logical thinking had apparently vanished. Sherlock logic had invaded, no wait cutting logic had invaded the thing that ruled Sherlock logic. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered to fight it.

 

Maybe I should tell John I need to cut. No don’t do that, he will try to stop you from hurting, and you need to. You won’t be able to cope with school otherwise. you must be perfect, remember? Okay you can hurt when you get back to school, it will be break John has other people to worry about then. Just act normally, and help John with his maths, it will distract you enough to cope with cutting in half an hour, and John won’t know you really need to cut. The lies, the voices. They were constant, I didn’t notice them they are so part of me, of my thinking. They are my thoughts, they feel right. They feel like mine. The realisation that they were coming from this self-destructive drive within me, well it was me. But they weren’t true. I was having thoughts that were rationally and logically wrong. All my life I had been fixated on the Idea of rational and logical patterns, yet there were these lies within my head, controlling me. I did what they said anyway. I didn’t have the time, patience, and capacity to argue.

 

So I helped John with his maths.

 

As we walked back to school I turned the cold blade over and over in my coat pocket. The coldness of it seeping into my skin, comforting me slightly, as I listened to John’s talk about the football at the weekend, I was paying enough attention to out the hmm’s, the yes’s and the what did you think of’s in the right place. Basically summing up my entire life right now. Living in a little bubble, a little world, captivated by self destruction. Yet staying afloat enough to keep the real world thinking that you are still paying perfect attention, and are totally fine.

 

When we got back to school I made some excuse about seeing my art teacher. I wandered off towards the art classrooms, the toilets were on the floor below. Not that I had been planning this for the last half an hour or so. I wouldn’t do a thing like that ever.

 

I locked the door behind me. Placed my bag on the floor, in a manner far from gentle, opened the zip of the front pocket. Placing the plasters and perfectly folded white tissue on top of my bag. Then coat off, rolling those sleeve, well it didn’t work, I’d given up trying. Pulled up my shirt sleeve. There was my canvas. Lines already engraved across it. Blade. Lines. Cuts. Red. Crimson. Perfect. I let the blood form into the small spheres of beauty. Finally the release I needed. Why was this so wrong when it felt so right. So good. So perfect. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Life. They flooded into my brain. Bringing a small smile as I let the white tissue become stained. Stained with the pain and hurt within. They were going they were gone. I didn’t want them in me. I had to cut to let them out didn’t John get that, I think he did, I think it’s the rest of the world I need to convince.

 

The world. It judges, not in the carefully calculated way I do, checking the many factors, variable and possibilities for errors and inconsistencies. Finding the solution that best fits all the facts. Yes every single one of them, if it’s out of line out of place, well there is a reason. As Mycroft always says “The universe is rarely that lazy”. But the world, they don’t do this, they see one fact, and another. They then link the two together, with the solution they think fits best, the one they like the most. The one that makes their lives easier. They don’t normally even find the third, fourth or fifth piece of evidence contradicting and destroying what they originally thought.

 

This is why the world isn’t safe. This is why I can’t be part of it. I must keep myself separate from it. All of it. This is why emotions aren’t allowed. They rule virtually everything in the world. I can’t let myself become enslaved by emotions. They aren’t good for working. They are distracting, and destructive.

 

Sherlock stop it you are now panicking. Cut again. To stop this.

 

I knew I was listening to lies again, but I didn’t care I wanted to stop getting annoyed and frustrated with the world, with everything, and everyone. So I cut. Slightly deeper than last time. I had found before that when cutting in quick succession the second lot of cuts has to be deeper than the first because otherwise it didn’t seem to do very much. Well nothing worth scarring myself for anyway.

 

The bell went breaking up my self-destruct campaign. I headed off to Biology.

 

Halfway through the lesson my phone buzzed. It was probably John, he was the only person who was bothered to text me. Other than Mycroft, when he has something important to tell me, the sort of importance people tend to do face to face. But Mycroft is Mycroft.

 

**Just so you know you are welcome to spend lunch with us, we are going to grab some food from tescos and go to the river, text back if you are coming so we know to wait.**

**Hmm, okay, maybe, how many people are coming, and who? SH**

**Me, Greg, Mary, Molly and Tom, 5, or 6 if you come, if you find it too much we can go back to school?**

**Okay I’ll come.  SH**

**Great, see you at the main gate.**

 

After a second Biology lesson with my other teacher Mr Watts, I went to my locker to grab my art book, it was a useful excuse to ignore people and just draw. I did have Art after lunch, it wasn’t totally random. I then went over to the gate. Mary, Molly and John were already there. Greg and Tom were apparently in computer science and were always late down from that lesson.

 

In tescos the look John gave me told me there was no way I was getting away without eating lunch. So I decided upon a cheese and onion pasty, they were small, but probably passed as lunch, and a can of coke, because I was tired and needed sugar. By the time we had got to the river, I had learnt rather too much about the hottest guys in the year, who was sleeping with who and whatever else, Mary and Molly didn’t stop talking. I didn’t say much, I was observing and checking the rules and restrictions of the group.

 

Molly then asked to look at my sketchbook, I hated people looking through my art stuff, because they normally made stupid comments, or everything needed explaining, or everything was amazing, it’s not. But I decided as she seemed reasonably intelligent, and John was looking at me with eyes that said, just let her look, I said yes. Luckily she was one of those people who looked at sketchbooks well, she had passed the test just about of being a person who I could cope with for an hour at a time. Greg and Tom were staring rather obviously at this apparently hot girl. I couldn’t resist just deducing her;

 

Out loud “She is currently in a long term relationship, she has twins from a one night stand from when she was 17, and is currently seeing 3 other men. In case you were wondering”

 

They both looked at me slightly shocked.

 

“She is also working in KFC, possibly cleaning the kitchen after the shift is over. She did however go to a posh boarding school from the age of 12, but rebelled against her parents and wasted the opportunity she was given. However the most likely cause of this rebellion was because of her parents divorce and she felt boarding school was just a way to get rid of her.”

 

Greg just continued to look at me in astonishment. Molly and Mary were finding it all rather funny, and Tom looked slightly disappointed. Greg and Tom were then teased about the girl for the rest of lunchtime, much to John’s amusement.

 

I was rather glad to be back at school, people were something i could only really deal with in that quantity for  a short amount of time. I did enjoy it. I might join them once a week. Lunch time was normally the time I used to sort my brain out so it could deal with the rest of school, and life in general. But with an Art lesson next I decided that it might work as an arrangement.

 

 


	11. Knowledge, it's not enough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is thinking lots, he realises thinking isn't going to get him much further.

I did slowly become more part of school, more part of the people. I was still Sherlock, that never changed. Half the school still hated me, but I knew that there were at least 6 people at school who didn’t. But they were also people who understood that I did need time alone. As much as being alone is something that may have started my self destruction mission. But it is also something my brain needs, it needs the space to think, and being around people stops the thinking. I can think in a large crowd in a busy room, but when they are people who I know this is harder because I begin to see the people rather than an experiment or possibility. Also John, Mary, Molly, Greg and Tom they knew that I also needed people around me. I don’t like have to rely upon people because they fail, but I fail. I am never going to find the perfect person to be a friend, but I will never be the perfect friend, I am not a perfect person. I am slowly learning that that’s okay.

It was okay to fail. Failure is truly terrifying. I avoid it at all costs. By engraving my failings across my body, there for everyone to see. Well hiding behind my shirt sleeves. I still felt that I couldn’t fail. I couldn’t fail. I could understand it logically, yet my brain didn’t seem to be logical. Because I was still scared of failing, yet I knew there wasn’t any need to be terrified. It was frustrating. Why couldn’t I just let it all go? Why couldn’t just let myself live again? Why was I letting myself be destroyed by myself? But I couldn’t stop it. Would I ever being able to? The idea that I might not terrified me. 

I didn’t like failing. But I didn’t know what to do about that, so I did what I do. Blade. Blade. Over and over. Over and over. 20 cuts, small shallow. Yet let the red of life flow down my arms. Filling my brain with energy. Full of life. Pure. Perfect. Beautiful. 

Mycroft was downstairs talking to Mum. Great this meant I would have to go downstairs. Pretending to be a human being, pretending to be perfect. Like they believed I was. They didn’t believe I was perfect. But they had never seen all of me, the bad as well as the good. If they only knew the good, then they couldn’t truly love me, every part of me. I was only as loved as I let myself be. Yet I didn’t. I couldn’t let them truly love me. It was too big to scary. So I was hiding, hiding, in plain sight, for everyone to see. If you had walked passed me in the street all you would have seen was a slightly taller than average guy, with dark curly hair, caught up in his own little world, but in the busyness of London, that’s what everyone else was doing. At school, I stood out slightly more, I was much more intelligent than everyone else, and I tended to let people know. But not in a big way, just good test scores, good exam results, answering questions in class, arguing with the teacher, talking about stuff at a higher level than the syllabus required, but people didn’t know about my deductions, other than a few, people didn’t often realise how clever I was, they often didn’t know how many subjects I was taking as they were only in one or two of my classes, they didn’t often know that I also did lots of sport, and played the violin, and did lots of painting. People only ever saw one part of me. People would never know who I really was. They would never understand me, and my brain. I was forever going to be alone. Because being alone can happen, and happens most painfully and hurtfully, in the middle of a large crowd, and to be not understood. If I’m not understood, will people ever love me, respect me, care about me, miss me. I don’t know. If I can’t be understood by them, will I be able to understand them. 

I went downstairs and saw Mycroft and Mum, it was very boring, very dull. I sat and talked about what they expected to hear, what they wanted to hear. They did the same back. I was living in a family where everything was always good, because we all wanted it to be like that, so we all pretended that's the way it is. A perfect home is also a very lonely one. I knew my parents love me, and Mycroft. But sometimes just knowing isn’t enough. I had always believed that knowledge was everything. But just having knowledge means nothing, it is pointless, without a purpose and a drive. That purpose and drive isn’t created by the knowledge but by the people who have the knowledge. Those people need something behind them, knowledge can’t push itself. Therefore the person has to be driven by something other than knowledge. Even if it’s the pursuit of knowledge, there is a passion driving that. I had lost my passion, my dream. Knowledge couldn’t find that for me. 

It was time to stop thinking and to begin to live again. To live with my thoughts, to breathe and enjoy the knowledge. But to be a person with a stronger grounding, a greater purpose than to know things.


	12. Sprialing chaos.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They escaped again, Sherlock's thoughts, Sherlock's emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments, Sorry this is a bit of a short chapter, but it's going to lead to a longer one :) ENJOY

I had been doing well, I hadn’t hurt for a whole week, I had only held the blade in once. I had managed to stop myself. Until earlier. I don’t understand it. We were at rugby training, we had just finished. It was the adrenalines fault. It kicked in again. I had no where to focus that energy. It hit me hard. It caused my brain, my thoughts, to spiral. To spin recklessly around me. Faster and Faster. Quicker and quicker. My heart beat faster. As my breathing twisted and turned out of my control. Images flashing through my head. The cold of the metal, the heat of the cut, they burned into me.

I needed to get out. I had to make this stop. Now. I couldn’t do it on my own. But it had to be done alone. Blade. It had to be done. This chaos needed stopping. In the madness it was the only way. In reality John was only 4 foot away. One word would had been enough. But the self destruct had taken over, no logical reasoning was going to stop me. It was only 6 cuts, Quick and perfect. Stopping my brain running wild. It was the pause I needed. I could breathe again. The air grew thinner again, not heavily sitting in my lungs threatening to solidify.

 

John could tell something was up. He also knew any words would have only relit the fire I had just calmed. As I went to undo my shoelaces a hand rested on my shoulder. It was enough to let me know that he knew, he cared, and that it didn’t matter that I had messed up, and we would talk later. There is something amazing in a person who can read you like that and know what to do, to let you know many things, often the impossible to say explain things, in the fewest words or the smallest touch. I may be able to read your life story, yet it will take me words, often many rapidly fired, to explain myself, to make myself look clever, to display my skill. Yet John it was the silent unrelenting presence that meant more than anything I can put into words. He also seemed to enjoy the puzzle of me, of my brain. But also how what he did affected it, influenced it. But he did all this in the most caring loving way.

 

Even if I wasn’t helping him with his school work, he would have still been there. He didn’t need anything back from me, he was just there. This was what made the biggest impact. Not what he said, not even what he did, but how he did it. This was somehow meaning I wanted to stop hurting for me, not just for him. I was beginning to see who I really was again. Also my crazy unpredictability didn’t put him off, it was another challenge, something new to play with. He enjoyed it, the ordered unpredictability of being friends with me. Something that people tend to be scared of, something they avoid. Yet John was drawn to it.

 

After rugby John was already coming back to mine. I wasn’t escaping him that easily, and John knew that I wasn’t having to go back to my house alone, and that we had lots of time to talk. Which is why he hadn’t pushed for anything in the changing rooms.

  
We spoke very little until we got on the tube to go home, but even then it was only about training, he was reminding me that he wasn’t disappointed or upset that I had hurt, but that he was there whatever. It did upset him that I didn’t love myself, care about myself enough to stop, but the pain that I was in, to him was something that needed to be sorted, and he was willing to sacrifice some of himself for me. 


	13. Guessing games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is playing guessing games again, if thats what it takes to unravel the chaos of Sherlock Holmes.

We finally arrived at Sherlock’s house. I hadn’t been to his house before. It was big, like massive. It was an georgian style house, with large windows scattered across the front of the house. The front garden was as big as my back garden. There were 2 big mercedes parked in the front of the house. His parents obviously had lots of money. I had guessed as much.

The hallway of the house as predicted was massive too. The inside of the house was very clean, very perfect, very modern, very white, with a few pictures and ornaments scattered here and there, with a good dose of books. Sherlock lead me into the kitchen, which was a truly stunning room with part glass ceiling and wall. But somehow within the white and glass it did feel very welcoming with a sofa packed with handmade cushions and many photo frames littered the walls. With a mug of tea in my hand, I followed Sherlock up to his room, which was a beautiful room, it was really big, with 2 big sash windows. These meant the room felt even bigger and lighter, helped by the high ceilings. His room didn’t have much in, a bed, a desk, a heap of science stuff and textbooks, and his violin and a stack of music, a few pictures and books placed carefully onto shelves.

We had hardly spoken, I knew I was going to be the one who broke the slightly tense air.

“You cut earlier, didn’t you?”

“Mmm” He didn’t even show any surprise that I knew.

“Why?”

A little voice murmured “Panicked”

“You panicked, okay, you panic quite a lot right?” He didn’t stop me to tell me I was wrong so I carried on “It’s going to happen, cutting isn’t the only way to calm yourself down. I’m going to assume that as nothing I can think of happened at Rugby, that it was probably adrenaline. The adrenaline, the same stuff that you get when you cut, and you felt it without the pain, so you freaked out. I did notice, and thought you were probably going to cut, yet you gave me no look in, I did try to catch your eye, but you were ignoring me totally. Next time all you have to do is say, and I will try to help, if you don’t want me to help you then fine, but you know what happens when your brain spirals out of control.”

“I have no other way to stop it.”

“Yes you do, there are lots of things, deducing someone, playing your violin, going for a cycle ride, drawing a picture, taking to me, watching tv. Want me to go on?”

“But I couldn’t do those things at Rugby, or at school”

“True, not all of them, deducing people you can do wherever you are, drawing in am sure at school there are enough scraps of paper in your planner to draw on. I’m at Rugby, you can talk to me? Stop arguing with me, you know I’m right you just don’t want to admit it.” At that he gave me the Sherlock glare.

“John, how are you so good at all this stuff, you are patient with the most impatient person you have ever met. You somehow care about the coldest person alive. How do you do all this? Without slapping me hard to make me do what we both know I should do?”

I knew he knew about my Father and I think this was his way of finding out. I knew I knew some of Sherlock’s deepest thinking and secrets, but I wasn’t ready to let anyone know what had really happened between my Father and me and my Mother, and the law. He would probably work it out. Greg knew the most, he had been my closest friend when it was all happening, yet I had carefully only given him small pieces of information. Since starting 6th form, most people didn’t even know he was in prison.

“Because I know that everyone needs someone, I could read you before you even deduced I knew you were self harming, I knew you needed someone, you weren’t going to ask for help, so I decided to try to help you, it was a bit scary at first, not going to lie. I knew you reputation and you are in my chemistry class, and football  and rugby team, I knew what I was getting myself in for.” He didn’t ask anymore questions, which was good. Either he knew I wasn’t going to tell him yet, or he hadn’t noticed that I was hiding things of my own.


	14. Finding the perfect distraction

I knew John had secrets. There was no way you get someone like that, without them. I wasn't going to bother pushing, I might manage to deduce something anyway. Pretty sure his Father has rather a lot to do with it all though. But why is it as I try to sort out this whole self harming thing. I find myself wanting to cut more, cut deeper. To prove a point. Not sure who to. Myself? John? The blade? It was causing the chaos inside to come out of the carefully packaged boxes within me. I knew when I told them to just go away they would come back. But I forgot how hard they are to deal with. Cut, now please, cut, remember how good it is, the pleasure, the rush. I did. I wanted to. But I want to be free. I want to break this. Escape this. But I want to cut. I need to cut. I need to remember I am real I am alive. Okay I won't cut. But I won't eat tea today. John went home a while ago. No one will know. Or care. John only knows about cutting. He won't think about asking about food. Food was too hard, it was something alive people do. I'm not alive, I'm not real. I'm a shell of a person.

Monday, I had art first thing so it wouldn't be too stressful. I got to school, and I was wrong, I started panicking. I tried to stop it, luckily I was early so I went and cut. I didn't want to go to art. I didn't want to do anything other than curl up on the floor. But I went to art anyway. No one noticed me, let alone noticed that at a moments notice I might snap their head off. I was trying hard to concentrate on my collage, and not notice the shiny blades of the scissors I was using. Not that I would ever cut with them, they are rubbish. I was trying hard to stay still, this was taking way too much concentration, my leg wouldn't stop bouncing up and down, it was just there, just telling me I needed to cut. I was managing to stick most of the stuff down one handed. So this meant the my nails were being dug into my hand, deeper and deeper leaving little 'c' shaped marks, that were slightly purple. They were keeping the edge off, just. It played around in my head over and over. The rush. The pleasure. The satisfation. I craved it. I needed it. It was flooding and taking over my brain. I couldn't do anything other than think about cutting.

That was when I noticed the girl opposite me was using a craft knife, the beauty of the blade. Throwing pictures into my mind. Dragging across skin. Over and over. This is when it all got too much and I just left. I didn't know where I was going, I would go back up and make some story about going to find something or other. I ran down the stairs. I needed to get outside. I needed real air. I rang John as I got outside. He didn't pick up. Great.

**I'm in a lesson, we will have to text, sorry, hope you are okay.**

**I'm not okay, I just walked out of art, and have no idea what to do with myself. SH**

**Okay, breathe, and let yourself relax, go back up when you are ready not because you feel you should, okay? Do you have blades on you? We can talk at lunch if you want.**

**Okay, I don't have anything, so I can't do anything. SH**

I went back up to art, muttered some lie about looking for photos, seriously, people don't see what they aren't looking for. They only ever look at what they can see. How these people aren't insanely bored I don't know.

I found John at lunch, he didn't bother trying to make me eat, he could tell that if he did I would go and cut. I would eat later as I had football training anyway. I don't really have a problem with eating food, but if I can't cut, it works as a replacement. Or when I have lots of work and it interferes with my thinking, but that's different. It then isn't destructive, but constructive.

John did say quite a lot to me, I can't remember most of what he said, but he did say that somehow I need to find a way to keep my brain occupied and busy. Not by finding a distraction, because that doesn't truly and fully work. There must be something out there that is perfect for my brain and will allow it to be occupied and lose the self destructive cycle.


End file.
